


Can't Run Forever

by altilis



Series: Priceless Commodities (Thief/Hacker AU) [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Main Event #2, Origin Stories, Other, Team Triumvirate, alternative universe, au bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altilis/pseuds/altilis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thief/hacker AU. Jim is in the business of stealing information (among other things). Along the way he meets some people and makes mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Run Forever

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for Team Triumvirate in Ship Olympics 2011, and conveniently it also fulfills my "Other: Criminals" square on AU Bingo.

Thirteen: Jim followed some of the older kids at school to a party. After pouring some cola in a cup and sliding between conversations, he found himself at the poker table where they play for pittance. He had a few credit chips in his wallet, so he took a seat in the circle and set his cola on the table.

They laughed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I want to play," Jim said, tipping his head towards the deck of cards.

"For what? Lunch money?"

"That's all you've got."

The dealer, seventeen with an ego to match, tightened his jaw, and then shuffled the cards. "Fine, but I don't want to see you cry when you're broke."

Jim could count cards. It was no surprise to him, he used to do it all the time when he played with Sam, but it sure was to these idiots, once they started losing all their money.

At about seventy credits he noticed they started getting antsy, started raising their voices a little, and the spiked punch was finally coming around. Time to call it quits.

"Thanks," he said as he stuffed the credit chips in his wallet, and the other kids glared at him. He took his cola and headed back into the crowd.

 

But Jim realized soon enough he wasn't going to get enough money this way. Not if he wanted that new bike at the dealership that would let him go anywhere he wanted, faster than any old car in the garage at home. Instead, he needed a job—but even when he was old enough to get one, that didn't pay what he wanted. So Jim decided to improvise. Sweet-talk the manager at the diner into a raise, help out the school with their computer systems (by hacking into it, and then blackmailing the technician)—anything to get a little bit more and a little closer to his goal.

He got caught and questioned a few times. He made a few enemies among the kids who didn't know how to play cards all that well. When he gambled, he won, and that was the only condition on which he’d play. By his eighteenth birthday he had enough money to get his bike (which wasn’t the same bike that he thought about when he was thirteen, this was a _better_ bike), no matter what anyone said.

So he bought it, and he left Riverside, Frank, that old house, this boring town, speeding down the highway without looking back.

\--

Twenty-one: he didn't have many too low-points anymore after he figured out how to live on his own, but this was one of the exceptions. His credit chip felt light, his stomach even lighter, but he couldn't surrender the pride to go to one of those shelters for a tasteless, nutrient-rich meal.

So he went to the store, one of the bigger ones with plenty of employees. It was almost too easy to sneak in the back and grab a spare uniform ("Chris"), and just waltz down the aisles, picking up crackers, a can of beans, and some apples and oranges. He got all the way back out to his bike and loaded the food into the storage in the back—

"Hey, you." A man called out from the back door, and Jim took that as his signal to leave. He slammed the storage trunk down, hopped onto the seat, and raced towards a gate that was already closing. His cycle barely slipped through.

Except the sharp, leading edge of the gate caught his arm, ripping through his coat, his shirt, and his skin. Great. He needed to get off the road before the police showed up, and he needed to get this arm patched up at a clinic somewhere. But where would he find a hospital here in the suburbs?

He traveled a few blocks around the town until he saw the sign, _McCoy, M.D. General Practitioner_. There. Jim pulled up behind his building and stashed his cycle behind a car, shucked his coat, and then pushed his way through the back door. Cupboards lined the walls, neat, uniform, and labeled—so Jim searched for the one that said "bandages," and popped open the door.

After wrapping his arm, he decided he might need a few more these later, so he scooped up an arm-full of the tiny bandage boxes and headed towards the door.

"Hold it." Fuck. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Delivery," Jim explained, turning around to grin at the doctor (he had to be a doctor, he had a white lab coat and everything) standing at the other doorway, all while backing up. "For my sister."

He saw the doctor shift his gaze to his arm and his blood-stained sleeve, and he took a few steps closer. Jim took a few steps back. "I can fix that," the doctor said, moving toward Jim.

"Probably," Jim agreed, wondering in the back of his mind how long it would take the authorities to get here if the man called. "But I have to go—"

"Don't." The doctor stepped forward again, reaching out a hand to him. "Do you want to know what you might get without proper care? Bacterial infection, Tellarite flu, within a day you could have pus leaking out of that wound, then the gangrene'll hit—"

"Fine, fine, okay!" Jim let out an exasperated sigh. "Fix it, but I've got places to be."

"And things to steal," the doctor lunged forward then, a strong hand gripping at Jim's uninjured arm, dragging him towards the front of the clinic. "Name's Leonard McCoy, by the way."

Somewhere along the way McCoy got him onto one of the beds in a room, and he spent a good ten minutes finding a pain killer that wasn't blacklisted on Jim's medical file. When he did find one, Jim found himself more relaxed than he ever felt, lulled back in the bed, even when the police officer stormed in from the front lobby.

"That's him!" The officer announced to no one in particular. Jim just tilted his head back against the pillow.

"Who?" McCoy asked, turning to address him.

"We have this boy's DNA from the scene of a robbery," the officer said, holding up a mini-PADD right in McCoy's face. McCoy looked less than impressed. "We'll take him in now."

"Do you know how easily that scanner can be fooled?" McCoy deadpanned, and stepped away to approach Jim. "Give me your arm, kid," he said gruffly, and Jim stuck out his arm. McCoy jabbed it with a hypo just below the elbow, and then held it out for the officer to take. "Test that. Tell me if it matches."

The officer hesitated, then took it and released the sample into a chamber at the top of the PADD. "...it doesn't."

"Then maybe you have the wrong person, here."

Jim closed his eyes and let the rest of the argument between the two other men wash over him; his arm was starting to feel tingly again, and he sank back into the softness of the bed, relaxing until he felt a nudge at his elbow. "Wake up. You're not out of the woods, yet," McCoy said.

The officer was gone.

Jim cracked open his eyes and looked at the doctor, then glanced over to that hypo now lying on the table. "...you did something with that sample."

"Maybe I did," McCoy said, slapping the regenerator onto Jim's arm. "What's it to you?"

"Always wanted to know a mixer," Jim said, smiling; he had heard of doctors and geneticists who could twist and manipulate DNA to their whims, but he had never been in a social circle to meet one. He was moving up in the world. "...we could do things," he suggested, and it just made McCoy laugh.

"The medication's getting to your head. I don't do any of the things you do, runnin' around stealing, so just sit back and let the machine do the work." McCoy checked the readings of the biobed, and then stepped away and started walking towards the door.

"Hey, wait," Jim called out, a little weaker than he intended, "then what exactly do you do?"

McCoy looked over his shoulder (with a small smirk, but maybe Jim was imagining that). "Gambling."

 

So later, when the clinic shut down from the evening, Jim asked if maybe they could have a round of cards, or something. Just for fun.

McCoy won every damn time. He played even better than Sam had.

\--

Twenty-two: Jim met a Vulcan.

Long story short, he tried to hack into his own medical file at the HQ in San Francisco, and here this Vulcan had been there - trying to do the same thing.

"Don't you have better things to do?" Jim asked, glancing over the edge of his PADD.

"I could ask the same of you," the Vulcan replied, and didn't look at him at all.

In twenty minutes, they were both done. Jim stuffed his PADD into his bag, and then hoisted it over his shoulder. "Hey, do you--" he began to ask, but the Vulcan was already walking away. "Hey!" Jim called out again, and then finally jogged to catch up to him, stepping up to his side. "Do you want to get some coffee together?"

"I do not consume coffee."

Jim cocked his head to the side a little, studying the side of the Vulcan's face he could see. "Orange juice?"

He got a glance. Progress. "Very well."

 

Turned out that this Vulcan, Spock, wasn't too different from Jim, always looking for things that weren't his - except for the fact that he had a steady job, one that gave him the perfect disguise wherever he went: computer security consultant.

"Do you do this often?" Jim asked once they had a found a little twenty-four hour diner in the city. He leaned back, waiting for his coffee. "Hack into systems you're not supposed to touch, I mean."

Spock sat still, unmoving, his hands folded neatly on the table. "When necessary."

Jim smirked a little. He could see the waitress approaching from the kitchen doors with their drinks. "But it's always necessary, isn't it?"

"More often than one would expect," Spock conceded, but Jim could also see some amusement in the look he gave, right before he glanced away to watch the waitress. They had a little secret between them now, almost-strangers they might be, though it was probably more Jim's secret than Spock's. He didn't have a facade to keep up for everyone else - this _was_ his living.

At the end of their midnight snack (and after Spock finished one cinnamon roll, a slice of cheesecake, and a bowl of egg custard, wow), Jim reached into his wallet and pulled out a small business card. He set it down on the table, tapped it with two fingers, and then slid it across the table towards Spock. The paper came alive after he lifted his hand, and the ink rotated between JAMES T. KIRK and a circular data matrix.

"Call me if you need a hand with your 'consulting,'" Jim said, folding his wallet again. "I'll see if I'm in town."

"And if I give this to the authorities?" Spock asked, picking the card up by the corner and examining both sides.

"It'd be like handing yourself in, and you know that, Mister Spock." He slid out of the diner booth, stood, and straightened his jacket. "See you later."

Spock nodded to him. "Good night."

 

Jobs with Spock gave him two things: money and contacts. And maybe something more, as Spock called him more often than any other person Jim knew.

\--

Twenty-three: Jim was pulling a job in Atlanta, nothing fancy, just a high-stakes Pai Gow tournament that wasn't exactly regulated or monitored, and Jim won and smirked at exactly the wrong moment with the wrong man across the table from him. He realized there was still some Terran profanity he hadn't learned yet.

After he dodged a right hook, they let him take his winnings straight onto his credit chip, get on his bike, and leave. He stopped by a cafe to get another cup of coffee, and then hit the freeway, heading south.

 

He woke up in a room smelling too clean - a hospital - rolled over, and there was...Spock. "...the fuck are you doing here?” Jim groaned, squinting at him to make sure it wasn't a hallucination.

"They contacted me in the aftermath of your accident," Spock said, not looking up from the PADD he was reading. "For a reason that has eluded me."

"Accident?" That could explain why his head felt sore, along with his back, his arm, and everything else.

"Your motorcycle veered off from the road." Spock finally looked up, and glance over his sprawled form. Jim's stomach sank.

"Is she okay?"

"Who? Your motorcycle?"

"Who else!" Jim raised his voice, though he directed most of his whining in the pillow. "You know the mileage I had on that bike—"

"There are more important things to worry about, Jim," came a gruff voice from the door, and Jim rolled over (ah, more pain) to see McCoy there, PADD in hand and equipped with a frown. "Busted up half your damn body along that road—and I don't remember being named your primary physician, either."

Jim gave him a weak smile. "I forgot to call."

"Thanks." McCoy stepped further into the room, taking a seat across from Spock on the other side of the bed. "Your bike's totaled, bounced off the divider and got hit by a truck. And why did you fall off?" McCoy tapped at the PADD a couple of times. "Drugs. What were you doing before your ride?"

"Gambling," Jim said, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember. It was all blurred together now, he couldn't remember any faces from that evening, whenever that had been. "Trying out some of the techniques you showed me...but, look," Jim pushed himself up and felt the strain from all of the muscles in his trunk, "when can I go?"

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Go? You think you're going to walk out of here after waking up from something like that? There's physical therapy and medication you need to take—you can't just hop out and drive around again."

"Like hell I'm going to stay here," Jim snapped back, though he couldn't deny he looked a little banged up: he had bandages slapped all over his limbs and torso, holding chemical and electrical patches in place.

"Are there outpatient alternatives?" Spock asked, and both Jim and McCoy looked at him. "I could volunteer my time until Jim has fully recovered—but we will need a residence to occupy."

Jim was touched by the sentiment as much as he was confused by it, but he had learned, after a few cons with Spock, not to question his motives too soon—but this was something big. This wasn't repaid by dinner and dessert. "I don't have the credits to put up for a condo, Spock," Jim sighed, and even if he did, he didn't know where his wallet was. Or his bag, with his PADD and his life. "Where are we—"

"You could just ask me for a place to stay, you know," McCoy interrupted, leaning forward to put the PADD at the foot of Jim's bed. "Idiots, especially _you_ ," he jabbed a finger in Jim's direction, "always looking a gift horse in the fucking mouth. You better not be the same," he said, looking at Spock for his last words. Jim hadn't asked because he thought McCoy was married – but maybe that had changed. Now, he just took in the sight of Spock sitting still and bewildered in his chair before this sudden inquisition.

Spock blinked. "...I do not believe I am."

"Good." McCoy, for once, looked satisfied, and he leaned back in his chair with his arms over his chest. "Now let's talk about your rehabilitation."

\--

Jim still managed to 'borrow' a pillow, one PADD, and a decorative print from the hospital, none of which anyone would miss, he explained to McCoy. Spock helped him out and joined him in the back seat of the car, and McCoy drove. Peach trees and suburbia pass them by, until the car stopped in front of a building.

Leaning across Spock's lap so he could look out the window, Jim snorted. "Doctor's salary and you live in a duplex?"

"Ungrateful," McCoy muttered, getting out of the car. Jim laughed (and wheezed) as he was manhandled out of the car by the other two. The rest was a blur until his body met a soft couch with not enough throw pillows, but whatever, he could deal with that.

He never imagined he'd be practically immobilized, recovering with Spock and McCoy (under the same roof)—they were talking biology over there in the kitchen—but he could deal with that, too.  
\--

The duplex had two bedrooms, and McCoy decided that Jim and Spock are going to go in the spare, which has a queen bed and not much else. By the end of the week, Spock had decorated one wall with that landscape print Jim took, but had also moved in a desk, a side table, and a shiki-futon ensemble that he set up on the opposite side of the room. One night, Jim watched him set up the mattress and blankets from his bed. He couldn't do much else; the medication gave him headaches if he tried to read late at night.

"We could share the bed," Jim suggested, out of the blue. "If you wanted to."

Spock looked up, pausing for a moment, and then went back to his task. "That will not be necessary."

"Suit yourself," Jim's gaze rolled up to the ceiling then, picking out patterns in the plaster. A silence passed between them, nothing but the rustle of blankets. "Hey, Spock..." he began again, "why are you doing this?" It had been a couple days of getting settled, figuring out medication, exercises, and diet regiments, and only now did Jim really feel comfortable, or competent enough, to pose this question.

"I consider it to be a worthwhile investment in your loyalty," Spock said, and he began to unbutton his shirt, hands deftly pulling and pushing buttons. "As I have already invested in your friendship."

The corner of Jim's mouth pulled up into a little smile, even though the haze of the evening and his osteoactivators kept him from completely parsing Spock's words. "Why do you need my loyalty? Planning something?"

"Not at this time." Spock rose to discard his shirt and trousers in the laundry basket in the corner—and, yeah, Jim watched, because what else was he going to do? "Jim," Spock's voice snapped him back to attention; he was wearing an old white shirt and checkered pajama pants now. "You should rest."

"Yeah, okay." Jim sighed rolled onto his side—slowly, carefully—and hiked the covers up over his shoulder. "Night, Spock."

\--

When Jim had time to think by himself—like when Spock was out buying groceries, or working—he wondered if this really was a good idea, to have Spock and McCoy in the same house for a long period of time.

They bickered. Not a lot at first, even when Spock questioned his idioms or dietary choices (bacon was a reoccurring theme, there), but once they got into a rhythm it could continue through the entire evening, at which point Jim just passed out on the couch and waited until dinner was ready. Sometimes they'd bicker after dinner, too, when they all sit in the lounge—McCoy watched TV to get his news, Spock did whatever on his PADD, and Jim leaned up against whoever was nearest, sleeping again so he wouldn't throw up the vitamin supplements he had to mix in with his drink at dinner. Last time he had tried to slide it in between eating broccoli and—no.

Sometimes, he didn't fall asleep completely. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow but he could still here the voices from the TV, and the simmering argument between his two other roommates.

"Jim said that this residence is unusual for you," Spock said quietly, from the armchair somewhere to Jim's right. Today was a 'lean on McCoy' day (aka(,) Saturday).

"Yeah," McCoy said, tired. "It's—it's because of my dad. He's staying at the research hospital in town."

"He's ill?"

"Pyrrhoneuritis."

Spock didn't say anything at first, just tap-tap-tapped at the PADD, before, "Are you assisting in his care?"

"I try." McCoy shifted, but Jim's head didn't move from his shoulder, just moved to accommodate the change. "But there's nothing else I can do. They won't let me near the research, can you believe that? Not even a peek."

"Fuckers," Jim muttered, and the next thing he knew his pillow-shoulder rolled, and he had to wake up and sit up or else he'd face-plant into McCoy's lap.

"If you're just going to sit there and eavesdrop, Jim, you can go to bed," McCoy said, but it lacked the usual hard edge of his medical suggestions.

"I'm going." Jim stretched his arms and yawned before standing. "None of those medicine shakes left for today?" he asked as he shuffled towards the hallway.

"I can add another one if you like!" McCoy called after him, and it was just loud enough to mask the sound of Spock getting up and sitting where Jim had been. Almost, anyway—Jim glanced over his shoulder to yell back something profane, but held it back when he saw Spock had already drawn McCoy's attention away.

 

He got back to bed, but now he wasn't too sleepy anymore. All he could really do was lie on his back and stare at the ceiling, thinking about what he'd be doing if he weren't weak and hurt. First, he'd get something to read. Maybe Moby Dick, or Treasure Island...

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep, but he woke up again when Spock came in—much later than usual, if the clock on the wall was any indication. "Working?" Jim asked, groggy, but awake enough to watch Spock dress down for the night.

"Speaking with Leonard." Spock answered. Jim gave a slow blink—since when had he been _Leonard_?

Jim yawned. "Long conversation, then..." And he was about to go back to sleep, close his eyes and shut down his mind when the bed dipped by his side. He blinked up at Spock, who looked down at him. "What?"

"It may be possible for us to access the pyrrhoneuritis research for him," Spock spoke quickly, the only sign of his burgeoning excitement. Jim stared at him. "...to repay him for his hospitality, of course."

Jim chuckled quietly, and then rolled over onto his side. "Of course...we can do that tomorrow, whenever you're not pushing me up and down the stairs outside."

"Weight bearing exercise is essential for your recovery, Jim."

"But I can walk just fine, okay?" he snapped back. Spock didn't answer, getting up from the bed and making his way towards the futon. Jim sighed into the pillow. "I heard it's gonna be cold tonight," he said, not lifting his head. "You might want to get off the floor."

 

Spock didn't answer then, either. In the morning, though, someone else was keeping the covers pulled high in his bed.

\--

Under normal circumstances, Jim would have taken his customized PADD down to wherever the physical servers were kept, sneaking in under the guise of a technician until he could get his hands on some wires.

Spock wouldn't have any of it.

"Come on, Spock, it's just a drive into town, you can pinch the guy and we'll be good for at least forty minutes—"

"No."

Not a word. So they had to crack it from the outside. It reminded Jim of one of their first projects together—hacking into the Federation citizen database for something Spock wanted. They didn't sleep for the most part of three days, glued to their PADDs while they worked in Spock's San Francisco apartment. Except now it was difficult for Jim to focus that much for so long, what with his headaches and Spock taking him out for a walk every other hour.

It took a while.

 

In fact, it took a long while.

"What the fuck," Jim threw up his hands on the seventh day. "Are they using Vulcan systems now to protect this shit? What kind of research are they doing here?"

"Perhaps," Spock leaned forward to set his mug of tea on the coffee table, "we should engage in another walk."

"No, I don't want to go for another walk," but Jim stood anyway. "It's fucking raining outside; I don't want to get soaked." He walked into the kitchen, going for the fridge – nothing to eat there but some apples and some bread. Orange juice. Vitamin shakes. He slammed the door shut again and just stood there for a moment, staring at the speckled black finish, holding the handle.

He heard Spock get up from the couch and move into the kitchen, and Jim's shoulders slumped. "Sorry," Jim muttered, and he felt the light touch of a hand at his back. "It's frustrating. Like someone took away your ability to eat a dozen donuts in one sitting."

"Seven."

"Seven, whatever," Jim drew his hand back and rubbed it over his face. "Let's get back to work."

 

After fifteen days, they got in to the system. They found where the files would be stored. Supposedly. Except they _weren't_ there when they first found their way in, late at one night.

"Fuck it," Jim said, and he went to bed. Spock joined him soon after that.

However when he woke up late the next morning, all the files were there, unlocked and free to download from their connection, so they spent the afternoon copying that down to their external storage. With this finally done, Jim felt better than he had in weeks, and he even went on a run with Spock around the block and back.

But McCoy didn't come back until late at night. Jim was busy relaxing after a heavy dinner of toast and eggs when he heard the door open.

Pulling himself to sit up, Jim called out, "Hey, guess what, Spock and I—" But McCoy walked right past the lounge, into the hallway, and into the bedroom, slamming the door shut.

Jim looked at Spock, who sat at the kitchen table for a moment longer before getting up from his seat. Spock walked into the hallway, and Jim heard a small, "Leonard?" but no reply. Jim rolled off the couch and to his feet (woah, gravity), and joined Spock in the hallway.

"He is distressed," Spock said, and he looked between Jim and the door.

"No shit." Jim reached forward to jiggle the doorknob. Locked. "Can you break the door?"

"I don't believe that would be the best course of action, Jim—"

" _Can you break the door?_ "

Spock looked at him, then disappeared into their bedroom for a moment, emerging with a forked tool. Jim raised an eyebrow. "Cattle prod?"

"A tool to overload fine circuitry," Spock corrected, and he did something with the door handle – pulled and shocked and pulled again – and finally the door swung open.

McCoy lay on his side on the bed, his back to the door. "Fuck off, you two," he growled, but there was something strained in his voice that Jim didn't recognize.

"You think that ever works?" Jim scoffed, and he flopped down on the bed next to McCoy. This mattress was softer than the other one. "What happened?"

"None of your damn business."

"On the contrary," Spock walked around to sit at the side of the bed where McCoy could see him. His brows drew together slightly. "Our business has been merged for some time, now."

For a few moments McCoy didn't say anything, and Jim and Spock just looked at him, until finally he took a deep breath. "Visited my dad today—and he's...dead."

"Oh," Jim looked over, and then rolled onto his side. "...sorry."

"Yeah, but there's nothing I—what are you doing, Jim?"

"I'm giving you a hug. Don't tell me you don't need it. Even Spock wants to give you a hug."

"Jim," Spock interrupted, but there was a green flush at his cheeks. "I do not."

"Do too. Now give him some TLC—but not the kind you give me."

 

Three men in a queen bed was a cozy fit that evening, but after some hot chocolate and a bit of a talk, Jim liked cozy, and so did Spock, if his strange new rumbling was any indication.

McCoy didn't say anything, wedged between the two of them, but Jim took that as a good sign, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Also at LiveJournal [here.](http://altilis.livejournal.com/13968.html)


End file.
